


Whiskey Kisses

by mrecookies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Free-writing, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gives and takes but never says <i>thank you</i> or <i>I love you</i> because he's this, he's Jackson fucking Whittemore even though he's never going to be enough, all glistening perfection outside and torn up ash inside.</p>
<p>Who would want a ruined boy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> For the 30 days challenge; prompt #16: _"That's what people do who love you. They put their arms around you and love you when you're not so loveable."_ (Deb Caletti)
> 
> Free-writing inspired by Richard Siken's 'Little Beast' because why not.
> 
> (Weird weird weird but I kind of like it.)

This is a ritual, almost. It calms him down: sneaking downstairs even though no one's in the house but him, taking the key from his father's desk, opening the liquor cabinet and taking the bottle.

It should hurt that no one really cares but maybe this is how his father cares, by not telling anyone that Jackson drinks, that Jackson needs this, that Jackson is _weak_ and hides away in the drowning silence of blood in his veins.

It's an unspoken barter trade; hush son, it's okay, do whatever you need to do. There'll always be full bottles of alcohol there for you to take, as long as you give. And he does, he gives his As and distinctions, his shallow popularity, the captainship of the lacrosse team. He gives and takes but never says _thank you_ or _I love you_ because he's this, he's Jackson fucking Whittemore even though he's never going to be enough, all glistening perfection outside and torn up ash inside.

Who would want a ruined boy?

*

"You're an asshole," the other boy says, and it's true, it's more than true, so Jackson doesn't say anything in reply, just hunches over and grabs his bag and leaves.

*

He says _shut up_ but Stiles doesn't listen; of course he doesn't listen, he's _Stiles_. This is why Jackson slams his fists against the locker on both sides of Stiles's shocked face, why he breathes onto freckled skin and red lips and doesn't pull away when Stiles kisses him like he's the one who's supposed to say that he's sorry.

Stiles is pliant but firm, and Jackson whines as he finds himself slammed back first into the locker. It doesn't hurt much; it hurts _good_ , and Jackson pulls Stiles closer, wants more, wants everything. Stiles says _no_ and Jackson thinks about whiskey as he sees the lie in Stiles's own eyes, drunken gold and addictive want, and Jackson's an asshole, because he just smirks and kisses Stiles, bites down on his bottom lip and swallows his moans.

When Stiles shoves him back with his lithe strength, Jackson has no regrets. None spill out of either of them even when Stiles drives up to his place; his parents are never home, it's safe, it's perfect. Jackson lives for the moments in between the licks and the bites and the kisses, watches how Stiles's skin stretches pale over his lean muscles, how he mutters Jackson's name as if it's a wonder, as if Jackson _deserves_ him, deserves this.

"I want," Jackson slurs, mouthing along Stiles's neck, the bottle of lube small and damning in his hand. "I want—"

But Stiles moves quickly, moves first, takes the bottle and dips his long fingers in the slippery liquid and reaches down and behind and _oh_ Jackson burns and breathes and can't look away as Stiles pushes one finger into himself, head knocking back to fall against the air. Jackson scrabbles for an anchor and finds it in the delicate bones of Stiles's hips, holding him still against Jackson's groin as the other boy writhes in his own undoing.

Stiles's eyes are closed but his mouth is open and panting, and now he's holding Jackson's cock and sliding it against his slick opening, and it's Jackson's turn to be undone as his cock slowly slides inside Stiles's tight heat. Jackson says _fuck_ and _Stiles_ and clenches his fists into the sheets as Stiles rides him hard and fast, his cock leaking precome onto Jackson's stomach.

Jackson comes with Stiles's mouth against his own, his spine arching up just as Stiles bends down. He comes with his hands safely planted on Stiles's thighs, his arms trembling with the effort to not press down harder. Stiles comes with his eyes barely open, fingers leaving bruises and scratches on Jackson's back and neck and shoulders. He's a ruined boy in ruined sheets with a perfect boy who wants him, and Jackson doesn't understand it at all.

*

He says _sorry_ like he means it, but his tongue refuses to cooperate. Why he does this still escapes him. Maybe it's a pattern, maybe he was meant to be like this, maybe there are too many ghosts of reasons that have drowned in the countless numbers of bottles and glasses and flasks before.

He says _sorry_ and means it, but Stiles is already gone.

*

They end up at a haunted place, filled with nights of yelling and screaming. The jeep next to Jackson's sleek Porsche, awkward angles juxtaposed with hard curves. Stiles punches Jackson in the jaw, and falls to the ground. Jackson staggers and spits blood onto the grass, but stands still even as Stiles gets up to swing his arm again. He's crying and Jackson's not; the bottle goes flying into the darkness and the shattering glass is an unnecessary wake up call. Two blows and it ends, and Jackson sits down next to Stiles and says _thank you_ and _I love you_.

He's afraid that he's ruining Stiles but Stiles snorts and talks over him like he always does, and it's soothing like the soft dabs against his cheek, like the careless kiss he places on Stiles's bleeding knuckles.


End file.
